


(Life) After Death

by Rovelae



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, virtual reality au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 21:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18185693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovelae/pseuds/Rovelae
Summary: Some of us never deserved to wake up.





	(Life) After Death

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for suicidal ideation.

            The first time Shuichi comes to see me is the first time I’ve talked to him in a month.

            Tensions in the little hospital room go from one to eleven the second he opens the door, and we spend a good twenty seconds staring at each other before he stammers out an uncertain “Hi, Kokichi.”

            I don’t move a muscle.

            “Can I come in?”

            “Can I stop you?”

            Shuichi must be feeling brave today, because he steps inside and closes the door behind him, eyebrows creasing as he takes in the state of, well, everything. It’s a simple room—just a bed, a couple of chairs by a table, and a floor-length window—but strewn with crumpled papers and halfhearted, meaningless scribbles the Future Foundation doctors love to take notes on. I’m sitting in my usual spot by the window, busy staring at the clouds outside without really seeing them. I haven’t done much else since they let me out of intensive care, actually.

            My eyes flick over to Shuichi again, who in turn looks anywhere but my face. His reaction would be funny, except it’s just … not. “Can I help you with something?”

            I leave a thread of irritation in the undertone of my voice so that he knows what I’m really asking him. _After all this time, what is it you want?_

            “I just … um, haven’t talked to you since … i-in a while. I thought … is it okay if we spend time together today?”

            _Are you being dense on purpose?_ I almost snap, but decide to be passive-aggressive instead. “Let me rephrase. The doctors sent you in here, right? What do they want you to convince me to do?”

            Shuichi shifts uncomfortably. “They … I came here on my own.”

            I close my eyes and resist the urge to throw something at him. “If all you’re going to do is lie to me, just leave.”

            He tugs at his bangs and mutters a quiet “Sorry.”

            I return my focus to the corner of the window and the room lapses into its familiar silence.

            It’s funny. He has to be the first person I’ve felt like talking to since waking up from the simulation, and suddenly all I want is for him to leave me alone.

            …Never mind. It’s not funny.

            “They said … I mean, the doctors said it might help both of us if we talked some things over,” Shuichi says. Then, when I don’t respond, “Kokichi?”

            I shoot him a look. “Can you _please_ leave?”

            Shuichi takes a deep breath, still not meeting my eyes. “Kokichi, I know that we’ve all … that I’ve kind of been … um, avoiding you, and I....”

            “I don’t really think you want to finish that sentence.”

            He chews his lip. “I just… I’m sorry....”

            “Everybody’s _sorry,”_ I growl, digging my fingernails into my arms hard enough that I feel the skin start to break. “How we feel doesn’t make any difference. Let’s just skip to the part where you tell me what you really think.”

            Shuichi stays quiet for a long time.

            _Just go away._

            “Can you… tell me what you’re thinking instead?”

            _What._

            I’d spent the entire killing game waiting, and _now_ he’s asking that question? I don’t know whether I want to laugh or scream, so I just glare at him with as much disgust as I can muster. Since when has he wanted to know—

            _He’s lying. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even want to be here._

            A bitter voice in the back of my head chimes in, and as it does, I can feel my expression smooth over into something cold and lifeless.

            _He’s never cared. He doesn’t want to listen. It doesn’t matter how you feel._

            I surprise myself when I chuckle softly, stretching out my legs and standing up abruptly enough to make myself lightheaded. “Of _course,_ Mr. Detective,” I say, sweetly. Venomously. “I’ll tell you everything. You remember, like, a few days ago when we were in a simulated death game and everybody was killing each other?”

            He doesn’t flinch, to his credit, but that only makes the malice simmering in my stomach rise to a full boil.

            “That might be on my mind a little bit. Being treated like an animal to be slaughtered for a bunch of lunatics’ entertainment has questionable ramifications for one’s psychological wellbeing, wouldn’t you say?”

            “I … y-yeah,” Shuichi tries, edging backward, looking somehow even more nervous than he did when he walked in.

            “But, hey, you already guessed that, didn’t you? Clever Ultimate Detective.” I shake my head. “You always were able to figure people out. That’s how you picked out the culprit in every trial, isn’t it? So they could be tortured to death, so we could start the game all over again.”

            This time, he does flinch, a flash of raw _hurt_ passing over his face. It was his mistake, trying to empathize with someone like me. If he wants me to talk, I’ll turn his vulnerability against him and make him hurt until he stops looking at me with all that _fake, disgusting pity—_

            “We can … talk about the game if you want,” he says in a strained voice, staring down at the floor. “I-If … if you want to get it off your chest....”

            “Oh, is there something you want to hear me say? Any particular … _pressing_ issues?”

            “K-Kokichi!”

             My hands are curled into shaking, clawlike shapes and my grin feels more like a sneer. Why am I lashing out like this? Why do I want so badly to see him shy away from me? My mouth tastes like I’m spitting poison—how can it feel _so good_ and _so terrible_ at the same time?

            “Huh, what are you getting upset for? Don’t try to pretend like you regret how _that_ played out.” _Just go away, go away!_ “It’s okay, Shuichi! I would have wanted me dead, too, so you don’t need to pretend you’re being _crushed_ by guilt over the whole thing.”

            “I didn’t … I … I didn’t want....” His breath catches and he shades his eyes with one hand. “Kokichi, please, I....”

            “Well, if that’s all you wanted, then you can get back to doing whatever it is you and the sidekick squad get up to these days. You’re the kind of person who always has your friends by your side, so....” I lace my fingers at the back of my neck, dropping the façade, letting my face go blank again. “Why would you want anything to do with a pathetic, lonely liar like me?”

            He leaves.

            He leaves, and the animosity churning in my blood fades out into numbness. I stare at the door as it closes behind him, and my chest shouldn’t feel as tight as it does, and the soft sigh that escapes me echoes the exhaustion suddenly weighing on my shoulders.

            _Don’t go._

            I close my eyes and collect myself, piece by piece, the way I’ve always done, stacking bricks back up into a wall. Hiding the dull ache of an emotion I can’t put a name to behind a stiff, unreadable mask.

            _Don’t go...._

            _Shut up,_ I tell the voice, and return to the window. _He doesn’t feel anything for you._

            _It’s better this way._

            But the thought makes my stomach twist, so I press my forehead against my knees and try not to think of anything at all.

 

            The second time Shuichi comes to see me, he stays by the door, his apprehension clear from the stance of his faint reflection in the sunset-orange window. I groan inwardly, trying to convince myself that what I feel is exasperation rather than that stinging, clenching feeling that’s been sitting in my chest lately.

            “Kokichi?”

            A small part of me wants to snap at him, drive him away again, but today I’m too tired.

_How far do I have to push you before you’ll give up on me?_

            “You don’t have to talk,” Shuichi says, clearing his throat a little, with all the hesitance of an actor who’d forgotten his lines. “Um … I just want to say that I … that it’s okay if you blame me for … everything that happened,” he says. “I can understand that much, at least.”

            What? Blame him for—? Ah, I think I did say something to that effect....

            “I think I’ve been … a little scared of coming to talk to you all this time, because I wasn’t sure what you would say. But, you aren’t … the only one who hates me for what happened in the class trials, so—”

            He cuts off abruptly, taking a deep breath. I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t seem to find the words.

            “But, you know.... Since the killing game is over, it’s kind of like we all get a second chance at life, so I just thought … maybe we could all try to get a better ending this time?”

            There’s so much _hope_ in his voice.

            It’s just as well. A better ending is exactly what Shuichi deserves. He should be happy, he should be with the people he cares about, he should be loved and safe and healthy and leave the game behind forever.

            He should forget about me. There aren’t happy endings for people like me.

            “I wish I could change what happened to you. To all of us. If there’s any way for me to make this better, I-I....” He sighs, sounding resigned. “I know, you don’t want to talk to me. I’ll just go.”

            _Please don’t leave._

            “Good night, Kokichi.”

 

            Shuichi doesn’t come to see me the next day. The therapist does, but I ignore her for long enough that she eventually gives up, leaving me with a warning that they’ll start me on an IV drip if I don’t eat something soon.

            Doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry.

            The day passes the same way all the others have, with the minutes crawling by like … ugh, there’s no comparison. Slow enough that each feels like an eternity, but fast enough that it surprises me when I notice the shadows of evening start to darken my room. How long have I been sitting here?

            Doesn’t matter. I’m tired.

            The pre-darkness causes one or two thoughts to surface, though, and I’m torn between trying to convince myself to stand up and walk to the bed and inwardly demanding _what is wrong with you, Kokichi?_ when it hits me.

            _Ah. I’m suicidal again._

            It scared me the first time, the realization that struck when I was sitting in the hangar long after the nighttime announcement, scribbling pages and pages of plans that wouldn’t work because they all involved someone dying. And then I’d written my own name under the stick figure with Xs for eyes, and then I’d set the page aside for a moment when I’d realized I would have no problem with that. Not just because it would give the others a chance to end the game, but because it would end everything else along with it.

            _That would be nice, right?_

            Not death itself, necessarily, and especially not the options available in the hangar, but….

            _It’s better this way._

            I’d looked down at the _attack target_ button on the Exisal remote and realized how easy it would be to point it at myself—

            And then panicked, and rushed over to the bathroom that Kaito had locked himself in, desperate to hold onto another’s life if I couldn’t hold onto my own.

            Even if all I could hold onto was the sound of that other life coughing his lungs out into the sink.

            _My room is four stories up. If I find a way to break the window, I could do it._

            And maybe wake up in another VR capsule, or in this hospital’s intensive care unit. Or somewhere nice and quiet. Or hell.

            _Probably hell. At least it’d be different than here._

            I’m not scared this time.

            Maybe. Probably. I’m just tired.

            _I’m so tired...._

            I leave the window and curl up on the hospital bed. Any dreams I manage to have are full of the chemical taste of poison-tinted blood and the hum of _that machine._

 

            The next day, I lose my mind.

            I’m not sure what triggers it, only that one moment I’m sitting and staring and the next I’ve picked up a folding chair and thrown it at that _stupid_ window with all the strength I have. The _clang_ resounds through the room and the chair clatters to the floor, leaving a miniscule spiderweb of white cracks laced across the glass.

            _Break. BREAK._

            I throw the chair again and the window remains stubbornly intact and I _hate it._ I want to see something other than the placid white of this _stupid room._ I want to hear something other than the persistent buzz of the _stupid_ fluorescent lights. I want to feel something other than the gnawing, empty ache inside of me. I want to watch my blood stain the carpet, to have a reason to hurt as badly as I do. I want to _HURT._

            A hand around my wrist stops me before I can throw the chair again. I snarl and yank hard against it, but the person is determined enough (or maybe I’m just tired enough) that I give up and let the chair drop to the floor, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had flared up.

            “Kokichi....”

            Of course it just had to be him.

            Panting, I raise my head to meet Shuichi’s eyes. There’s no pity there this time, only … I don’t know what that is. Frustration? Unease?

            “Kokichi … let’s sit down for a minute, okay?”

            Mute, I let him pull me toward the bed, and we sit on the side and it goes quiet again. My head is still ringing from the adrenaline, but the exhaustion from before has returned as strong as ever. And … my mind is empty. I can’t open my mouth to speak even if I knew what to say.

            “They’re going to put you in the high security ward again if you do that,” Shuichi says quietly.

            _And watch me 24/7, I know. I don’t care._

            “And they’ll give you more medication, and you’ll have to go to more therapy....”

            _I don’t care._

            “And they’ll do more of those tests where they make you draw things. You probably don’t like those, do you?”

            _I hate them and I don’t care._

            Shuichi sighs, then seems to remember he’s still holding my arm and quickly lets go, brushing his hair out of his face and standing up. “I, um … I’ll go find one of the doctors to—”

            My hand reaches out of its own accord and grabs his sleeve.

            “Please don’t go,” I hear myself croak, so quiet that I’m not even sure it reaches him.

            He’s frozen in place either way, though, and I can feel his eyes on me.

            I swallow hard and whisper, “Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

            _What am I_ doing?

            Shuichi hesitates a moment longer—

            _He doesn’t care. He_ can’t _care, he doesn’t...._

            —and sits down beside me again.

            _He doesn’t … make any sense._

            “Are you okay?” he says gently, and when I don’t respond, he adds, “And I’m not actually asking you that so much as encouraging you to tell me what’s going on.”

            _Shuichi, there are a million things going on, how am I supposed to sum it all up? It feels like I’m drowning, falling, burning, choking, being crushed again—and it hurts and I’m scared and I can’t tell_ anyone _and I can’t_ do this anymore—

            A tiny, incomprehensible noise slips out of the constriction in my throat.

            “Was there something about looking outside that was bothering you?” The Ultimate Detective is back. “Maybe the sunlight? I think that’s been the case for a few of us. Hating the sun, I mean.”

            _I can’t tell you, I can’t...._

            “I’m just worried, because … if you were to fall out, it’s kind of a long way down.”

            I can’t see his face from the angle of my head, but I see the realization hit in the way his fingers clench on top of his leg. “Ah … that … was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

            _I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m numb._

_I’m pathetic._

            My eyes sting. I’m sure my silence is answer enough to his question.

            Shuichi’s hand closes tentatively over mine. “Will you please talk to me, Kokichi?”

            _I...._

            A few tears escape my tightly-shut eyes, and I know the rest are eager to follow. I tuck my face into the crook of my elbow, trying in vain to even my shaking breathing. I have to talk, I have to get this out or I might actually shatter to pieces.

            _You can’t tell him. Not him. You_ can’t.

            I have to.

            “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

            “For … crying?” Shuichi guesses. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel, you know.”

            I’m shaking my head before he finishes, and my heart’s pounding, and suddenly it’s impossible to keep everything inside and before I know it I’ve thrown my arms around him and I’m hugging him like he’s the only thing between me and oblivion—which, incidentally, he is.

            Shuichi starts at the sudden contact, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even seem like he’s bothered by it, in fact. Why is he _like_ this?

            “Koki—”

            “I’m sorry, Shuichi, I’m _sorry,”_ I choke out, voice muffled by his chest. “I-I don’t think you’re a bad detective, and I don’t blame you for anything and I don’t think anyone else should either, a-and I don’t know why I said all that to you and—” A quick gasp for air— “I-I know you were just trying to be nice, you’re one of the only ones who ever honestly did that— I’m— I’m _sorry,_ I—”

            “Shh, slow down,” Shuichi says, curving his arms around me. He’s _soft,_ he’s so soft and I don’t deserve compassion like this _._ “It’s okay.”

            “I thought it would be easier if—if I made you hate me again, but I—but it just hurts, and you’re too _nice,_ and I don’t … want to hurt you anymore....”

            “I don’t hate you,” he says. My mind reflexively screams _lie_ but I want to believe it so, so badly. “Listen, we … none of us have really been our best selves. Either in or out of the game, that is, so … it’s okay. Really.”

            “It’s not.” I shake my head. “It’s not okay.”

            “I’m not mad, all right? I get it.” His hand strokes a gentle circle over my back. “You’ve been through a lot, and I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure with—” We both flinch. “Oh—oh, no, I’m so sorry—”

            A choked almost-laugh forces its way out of me, and I shake my head. “No, I … I had it coming.” Then, softer, “I deserved it. Everything I got.”

            Shuichi’s hold briefly tightens. “None of us deserved what the game did to us.”

            “I _deserved_ it, Shuichi.”

            A pause. “Do you want to talk about it?”

            For the first time since the hangar, I don’t have it in me to lie. For the first time since the hangar, the despair seething inside me flares hotter than any poison.

            For the first time since the hangar, someone wants to listen to me, and this time that someone is Shuichi Saihara.

            What’s left of my mask crumbles.

            “It … it hurt, Shuichi,” I whisper. “It hurt so, so much, and I was _so scared.”_

            Shuichi pulls me closer and I go to pieces, clutching at his shirt and crying harder than I’ve cried in any of my lives. I can hear myself talking between sobs, and some part of me knows I’m completely incoherent, but I can’t stop even if I wanted to.

            “The sound— I can’t stop hearing the _sound_ it made— it was— e-everything was so cold, and— and I couldn’t move and I should have closed my eyes but I didn’t—”

            “Breathe, breathe.”

            “It was too slow, it was too _slow—_ a-and I couldn’t breathe, and— and it— it _hurt—_ and I just wanted it to stop but I-I didn’t want to die—”

            “I’m sorry, Kokichi.”

            “I didn’t want… I didn’t want to die, Shuichi, I.... I didn’t want to but it hurt _so much....”_

            “I’m so sorry.”

_What’s wrong with you, Kokichi?_ I wonder distantly, again. Not even the doctors have heard me say the things that are somehow so easy to tell him. I’ve never been this honest with anyone before. But here I am, a shivering disaster weeping in the arms of the one person I wanted more than anything to trust.

            And here he is, listening to every word. Holding me like I’m something precious to him.

            _And I don’t ever want him to let go._

            By the time I pull myself together enough to stop trembling, I’m somehow even more exhausted than before. Shuichi has hardly moved except to shift one hand to the back of my neck, his fingers tracing gentle patterns at the base of my skull. The sensation is profoundly soothing.

            He lets me pull away first, and I’m not sure how well I hide my reluctance to do so. Previous iterations of me might have tried to crack a joke here, but all I can manage is a deep sigh.

            Shuichi breaks the silence after a moment with a soft “Any better?”

            I try not to scoff. Unsuccessfully.

            “Ah, I mean—are you, um, feeling less horrible at least? I, um....”

            “I still feel like killing myself, if that’s what you mean,” I say, drying my cheeks with my sleeve. “But....”

            _But it’s different now._

            “Less horrible,” I relent.

            “I’m glad.”

            I’m skeptical until I glance up and notice him discreetly swiping at his own eyes. “What’s … what are _you_ crying for, detective?”

            “I, ah … sorry.” He lets a few tears fall before turning to give me a strained smile. “I’m just really glad you talked to me. Thank you.”

            _Thank you?_ Am I ever going to understand how he thinks?

            _Probably not,_ I answer myself, leaning my elbows on my knees. “You don’t make any sense,” I mumble, not actually meaning for him to hear.

            He does anyway. “To be fair, neither do you.”

            “Hm.”

            “I don’t think … you’re used to being cared about, so you don’t really like talking about how you feel.”

            “Hm.”

            “I… I really have been worried about you, Kokichi.”

            Strange. I don’t even hear the tells of a lie in his tone.

            I keep my gaze on the floor. “Are you going to tell the doctors?”

            Shuichi leans back on his hands, sighing. “Are you going to try to kill yourself again?”

            _I don’t want to die,_ I had thought back then, when the cold steel touched my bare chest.

            _I don’t want to die,_ I had thought when the Future Foundation extraction team pulled me out of the VR capsule, strapping an oxygen mask to my face.

            _I don’t … really want to die, I guess,_ I think, now.

            “Probably not,” I answer.

            “Is that a lie?”

            “…Probably not,” I say with the ghost of a smile.

            The detective sighs again. “Then, I _probably_ won’t tell the doctors. As long as you promise to let me help you from now on.”

            I consider this. “And … how do you plan on doing that?”

            “I’ll figure something out,” he declares, standing up. “I think we should start by getting you something to eat. You look like....”

            “Like a corpse?”

            “Like you’re really hungry.”

            “I’m actually … really not.”

            “Well, you’re going to eat anyway.”

            _Since when have you become so assertive?_ I wonder, amused, and stand up as well, moving toward the washroom. “Fine. Supposing you can make me do that, what next?”

            “I.... Maybe we’ll go outside? It’s a nice day out.”

            “Mmh.” I turn on the faucet at the sink and splash some water on my face. I really do look like a corpse. “Can I avoid everyone else?”

            “If you want to, I guess. But not forever.”

            I take a moment to frown into the mirror. A shower might do me some good, too.

            “Kokichi?”

            “And then what?” I call, combing my hair into submission with my fingers.

            “Is— is there anything sharp in there?”

            “Anything…?” I scan the room over briefly before I realize what he’s really asking. The thought makes me smile.

            “Kokichi!”

            “Everything’s fine.” I raise my hands in surrender as I exit the washroom and move toward the door. “Let’s go eat, if that’s what you want.”

            He places his hand on the doorknob before I do, eyes hard. “You didn’t promise.”

            “Promise?” I repeat blankly.

            “Promise me you’ll stay alive with me.”

            I stare at him. This timid, soft-spoken, anxious boy who still has trouble looking people in the eyes. This clever, obstinate, courageous detective who’d challenged the entire world and won.

            _Shuichi Saihara, there really is no understanding you._

            “You win,” I find myself telling him. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been giving Shuichi a lot of love lately, so I wanted to address Kokichi’s trauma, too.  
> This is meant as a companion story for my piece “Safehouse.” They’re set in the same universe, though this one takes place around a month or so after the end of the killing game while “Safehouse” is set around 2 years later. Check it out if you liked this one! -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17850218  
> Comments and critiques are welcome and appreciated!


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